


The Izuru Kamukura Ward

by ko_drabbles



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: (Though It's Sort Of Justified???), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Anger Management, Anorexia, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bullying, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Delusions, Dependency, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Guilt, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, M/M, OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex Addiction, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Trust Issues, anger issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 16:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12085275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_drabbles/pseuds/ko_drabbles
Summary: The Izuru Kamukura ward, otherwise known as Hope's Peak, is a psychiatric ward that caters to teenagers. They want to give hope back to their patients, even the ones who gave up on it long ago.





	1. Maizono's Dead

Blood. A lot of it, in his shower, draining from his idol, the girl he knew in middle school, Maizono. There's a knife. Why is there a knife? No, no, murder. Murder, there's been a murder. Who did it? Who killed her? He has to find out, it's his duty, he has to find out!

Pink blood, pink blood, knife, knife. 11037. Why did she write that? 11037. 73011, 11037. 11037, LEON. LEON. LEON killed Maizono, Maizono was killed by LEON. Where's LEON?

Crystal ball, smashed. Shirt, burned. 11037, LEON. Kirigiri will help, Kirigiri helped because she always does but everything's chaotic, he can't focus, the blood is pink. Pink blood, red blood, pink blood, red blood. Was this real, was it not? Everything was chaotic.

"Naegi?"

Kirigiri. Kirigiri helps. She helps, she does, she does! Don't take Kirigiri away! Stop! She's his, she helps, don't go!

Everything's disjointed, disconnected, he can't find her. Where is Kirigiri?! She always disappeared! He needed her, she made everything make sense, and she wasn't there! She should be! It was a trial! They all had to be there for the trial!

Guilty. Who's guilty? He knows, he knows, easy, easy, easy! But everything's muddled and distant and he can't grasp it! Facts, facts, facts! Think, think, think! Maizono, his room, shower, knife, blood. Was... was he? No! No, it couldn't be! He was forgetting, what was he forgetting? The evidence, the evidence, where is Kirigiri? He needs help! They need help!

Who’s the killer again?

Everyone’s staring at him, eyes narrowed and all spitting the same acrid words. Murderer. He’s the murderer? Blood, knife, Maizono, *STATIC*, his room. His room. His room, his, his, his. He’s the murderer, right? He remembers the knife, the blood, his room. Yeah. Yeah. He has to be, right?

Is he forgetting something?

Monokuma. Monokuma’s there, like always. Watching, like always. Monokuma wants them to choose. Choose who did it. Choose who killed Maizono, the girl he knew in middle school. Who killed Maizono? Well… He did, right? He killed Maizono. Maizono, the girl he knew.

Lock in the answer. No one has a face, it’s just shadow and threatening eyes that narrow as they look at him. Of course they hate him, he’s the murderer. He chooses himself. If he killed her, he has to be executed. Right? Right. Of course. It’s basic morality. Or is it? Yes, it is.

He hates his messy head.

The voting is unanimous, of course it is. He’s a murderer and they all know it. Monokuma laughs. And laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Fingers, his, bury in his hair and pull and yank. He wants Monokuma to shut up, shut up, shut up! Is he screaming? He might be.

“ **Wrong**!” The demonic bear laughs, “ **You really are useless without Kirigiri, y’know**!”

Wrong? How can it be wrong? He killed her, right? She was in his room, there was a knife, blood. Blood, blood, something’s still fuzzy. What? What, what, what is it?!

“ **Give up**?” Monokuma chuckles, “ **Does 11037 ring a bell**?”

Oh. Oh! 11037, 73011, LEON. LEON is the killer! He forgot, he got confused, how could he do that?! He needed Kirigiri, but she wasn’t there and he didn’t know why! Kirigiri needed to be there, **he** needed her there!

**_“It’s punishment time!”_ **

A sharp prick in his arm. He screams as the chains lock around his neck, and everything plunges into darkness.

He wakes up in his hospital bed after that, and he stares as the faded ceiling. He has to try and discern reality and delusion once more.

It doesn’t matter.

Maizono’s still dead.


	2. He Won

There were words, words he’s always heard. Words that sting, hurt, ache; but no. No, he can’t tell anyone that. Why? Why can’t he let his stone facade slip and cry like a normal human being, on a friend’s shoulder? Well, firstly, he doesn’t have friends; he has parasites that suck the life out of him, that leave him drained and tired, that will one day kill him. Secondly, he was a Togami; a Togami can’t ~~cry~~ ~~hurt~~ be seen as weak. He has to fight, has to be strong, and **win**.

That was beaten into him more than anything. He needs to win. If he wins, he has the world at his fingertips; if he lost, he might as well be dead. That was life, there was no reason to cry over it. Who cares if your siblings want you dead, that your parents think of you as disposable and equal to **dirt**. It doesn’t matter because, if you can’t take that, the world will chew you up and spit you out. That makes it ok. That means that his family **does** care, and is just trying to **prepare him** …

No. He’s too smart and logical to buy that… right? Perhaps not, it’s a comforting thought to lull him to sleep. He deserves that at least, doesn’t he? A nice thought to shroud himself in as he pretends he’s not crying himself to sleep.

Honestly, he shouldn’t even be in this hospital room. He just got bad dreams sometimes, he just lost track of time sometimes, he just stared into space sometimes. It didn’t matter because he **won** against them, didn’t he? He was prepared and strong and perfect. He wasn’t like Ishimaru, in and out of this ward like it had a revolving door. He wasn’t **weak** or **depressed**. He wasn’t like Oowada, who couldn’t even look at a motorbike or cross the street by himself. He was a **Togami** , unlike the common filth.

He wasn’t as lost in his head as Naegi, making up people and situations that just weren’t real. He was **fine**! He didn’t need to be here! He didn’t need the medication they tried to force down his throat. They were **nightmares** \- no, **bad dreams** , call them **bad dreams** \- that was all! Besides, wouldn’t anyone who knew what he **did** say he **deserved** it? That he should suffer?

Perhaps that’s why he kept Naegi so far from him, sharp tongue rattling off insults and painful truths, only for the boy to mutter “Byakuya and I grew a little closer today”. It was… rather heart-breaking, he supposed. Naegi was good company, even more so when he was lucid. It was thanks to this that he’d actually shared things with him, often coupled with an insult to keep some illusion of distance between them, even though he was probably just forcing himself to think that.

No. No, everyone thought he **hated the boy’s guts**. Surely Naegi had to see they weren’t “growing closer”. It was probably something his diseased little mind was making up for him!

No. He knew that wasn’t true, either.

He was growing closer to Naegi, trusting him, and he **loathed** himself for it. He couldn’t decide if it was this issue or the nightmares - **bad dreams** \- keeping him up, and he didn’t really want to. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling with dark shadows under his eyes.

Another sleepless night, it seemed. Still, he wasn’t **broken** or **weak** , he just **couldn’t sleep**.

If only he actually believed that...


	3. Loser Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiyotaka doesn't really have problems, he just wants to die.

Loser. Freak. Disappointment. Idiot. Teacher’s pet. Suck up.

Words. They didn’t really hurt much. Well, not to him. What hurt most were the punches, kicks and drownings. Yes, drownings; his classmates actually want him dead that much. He wouldn’t mind so much if it actually killed him, rather than them just waterboarding him; that was just bogus. That was just stabbing pains in his lungs, coughing, and possibly throwing up; not to mentions the red lines he drew on his side when he got home.

Honestly, those weren’t really related to the whole “wanting to die” thing, more a punishment for not provoking them **enough** so they snapped and killed him. That’d be nice. The noose didn’t work, nor did the slit wrists, nor did jumping off the bridge, or the pills that only put him in a coma rather than **finishing the job**. He was in and out of hospital, his father was desperate, and he was annoyed. Nothing worked. Either he miscalculated, or fate would intervene because the universe just seemed to have it out for him. Perfect.

Counsellors and therapists were just as bad, and he father was **paying them**. They didn’t have much money, and the debt only seemed to get worse, and his father was only adding to that by trying to hire people that would “help him” instead of letting him just **leave**. Besides, the few he’d gone to were worse than no help at all; the worst trying to convince him he was just a little gloomy and that he didn’t **really** want to die, that it was just a plea for attention.

He couldn’t name a therapist he hated more than that one, but he just didn’t like **talking** to begin with. He shouldn’t selfishly take up someone else’s time with his problems. He couldn’t even understand why his father wanted him around, anyway; if he was gone, then there’d be more money to pay off the debt and his father wouldn’t have to work so hard. He was an annoyance, so why keep him around simply to waste food on?

Not that he ate much, a little rice and a few vegetables, maybe. Still, it was wasted on him.

He was just laying there now, wrists bandaged up to his elbows once more, staring up at the ceiling in general apathy. He was just so tired, but he couldn’t sleep. His father was begging, imploring him to stop this “nonsense” and demanding to know why he kept doing this. Kiyotaka looked at his father with his dead, empty eyes and explained it as simply as he could.

“I’m tired of trying and failing. I just want to leave, and never come back… It’ll be just like falling asleep...”

He didn’t hear what his father said, and just turned back over. He closed his eyes, waiting for the nurse to come and collect him, to take him back to the ward that almost seemed to be perfumed with the scent of bleach and failure. He didn’t want to go back. There was one positive, one thing that didn’t suck as much as the rest of his life, and that was Mondo.

Mondo selflessly donated his time to him, tried to help him feel better. He held him and whispered white lies of “good enough” and “beautiful” into his hair. Even though Mondo shouldn’t lie, Kiyotaka was addicted; he was addicted to rough lips and soft words, big hands and their almost worshiping touches. Even if every word and touch was laced with deceit, he couldn’t stop hearing them while he was there, couldn’t stop letting Mondo hold him close.

He’d still go, of course he would. He was useless and disgusting and needed to die. However, Mondo made it easier. However, taking up Mondo’s time with his unimportant problems was selfish; Mondo needed to get better himself. Still, he supposed it didn’t really matter…

He was going to die soon, anyway.

 


	4. Fragile Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's weak. He's so, so weak...

Mondo Oowada, the fallen leader of the Crazy Diamonds, was weak.

It wasn’t a secret, anything but; if it was a secret, he could deal with it how he had his entire life. But no, the whole gang knew he was weak, saw it all, and most of the gangs around the country knew he was in the damn looney bin for something or another. The best rumour was anger issues, that at least kept some of his credibility and made him more intimidating, probably. More likely to fly off the handle and smash some faces.

But he wasn’t. He was there because he was weak and couldn’t deal with shit like a man. He was there because, after he killed his brother, he’d moped about and acted like a sulking child, tears streaming down his face all throughout Daiya’s funeral, and the way the gang treated him. Fragile, broken, like a little kid.

He was Mondo Oowada! Leader of the Crazy Diamonds! He was meant to be STRONG! Meant to be RESILIENT! But he wasn’t, and wasn’t that just pathetic? Wasn’t that just fucking heartbreaking? The boy who tried so hard to claw his way to the top fell because of the want, that need! Someone call fucking Hollywood!

He was just bitter, he supposed. His life was in tatters, his family gone, and… he couldn’t even ride anymore. No, Mondo Oowada couldn’t even get on the damn thing anymore. Not without seeing that blinding light, those screeching brakes and blaring horn, feel the sensation of hitting the concrete when Daiya shoved him out of the way of the truck. It was so vivid, and left him stumbling off his bike, breath short and chest tight.

Panic attacks were the worst. The annoying thing was that he used to get them a lot as a kid, but he grew out of them; he got coping mechanisms, words of wisdom, and the knowledge that he could be strong if he worked for it. Daiya taught him that, and how did he repay him? Death. By killing him. The courts may not see it as murder, but it was at least manslaughter. Daiya sacrificed himself for some worthless, panicky kid who wasn’t strong enough to lead the gang.

He internalised it all, guilt and sadness festering and morphing into thick, black depression. He didn’t leave his apartment, every skidding brake and honking horn restricting his breathing and stuffing his lungs with fiery cotton. He could only sink to his knees, pull his legs to his chest, and try to breathe like Daiya always taught him to, no matter how painful it was.

It only backfired when the gang tried to force him onto the bike again, saying how he’d feel better if he got out and rode with them again. He tried to tell himself that the accident had happened, that he was safe, but as soon as he swung his leg over and sat down he could feel it in every fibre of his being, see it right before his eyes, hear it ringing in his ears.

He didn’t really come back to himself until he realised he was on the floor, face pressed into his knees and struggling to breathe as Takemichi’s soothing voice finally broke through the sound of tires on tarmac. He couldn’t deal with it. His fingers buried themselves in his hair, and he cried and cried like the pathetic mess he was. Daiya was gone, and he couldn’t be strong. He was overloading, breaking down, and that was the moment that everyone knew the true Mondo Oowada; a delicate little boy in the shell of a “real man”. What a joke.

That was what made them think it was serious, apparently, and they urged him to get checked out. Of course, you didn’t have to be a genius to work out “PTSD”, of course not. They said anxiety, also, but he already knew that. Next thing he knew, they were checking him into the ward and Takemichi’s signature signed him away.

Honestly, looking after Ishimaru - Taka - was a God-send. It kept his mind occupied, gave him an objective he could focus on, and Taka’s warm body next to his gently soothed away the nightmares. However, he was getting better, and now that was the last thing he wanted. Taka was in and out all the time, and they’d just grow apart if Mondo was discharged. That thought was enough to give him panic attacks, only from a very real situation.

So, he did what he was best at, and pretended. Randomly had “nightmares”, thought about Taka leaving in detail to force panic attacks, found trauma after trauma to discuss. He couldn’t do that forever, but he didn’t have to; just long enough to convince the other he wanted to live. That’d be ok, he could do that.

He was Mondo Oowada, delicate but cunning.


	5. If You've Got It, Sell It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She might as well get paid if she's going to do that shit anyway, right? She just hates having to share to ward with angsty, emo teens who think cutting themselves is the answer to everything. She doesn't need cry babies in her life.

Celestia doesn’t have a fucking problem. No. She’s not a **fuck up** , like the rest of the idiots here.

She doesn’t cry over her decisions like Togami. No, she’d stab the knife into their backs because she **wanted** to, not because _daddy dearest_ made her. He’s weak, under those steel walls, and one day he’ll just drop dead from exhaustion or whatever he gets hooked on. She hates him, in a way. He reminds her of herself, perhaps; some shit her counsellor will pull out of his ass when they see each other next. God knows what he’ll say.

She doesn’t make up shit in her head and wander round in a daze for fucking **hours** , either. Naegi has problems, big surprise! Everyone here does, he’s not special! He saw his crush - or whatever she was - die, along with the boy she may or may not have been fucking. Can you believe the tabloids? No. Do you listen anyway? **Of course**. It’s fun to see celebrities and idols being torn to shreds in order to make the masses feel better.

She doesn’t cut herself, or try to end it all because some pieces of shit won’t play with her. That’s just sad, let’s be honest. The only reason Ishimaru won’t be prime minister is that he’s failing his classes, because he’d rather be in hospital getting stitches than working for it. Or, that’s how she sees it.

Mondo just cries because his brother died. **_GET OVER THAT SHIT; YOU’RE A MAN, RIGHT?!_**

Or maybe she’s just insensitive. That’s probably it. They all think she’s a sociopath, after all; though she **isn’t**. There’s a difference between being a sociopath and recognising that these fucks are angsting over petty, first world problems. She’s seen shit. She’s felt shit. She’s taken shit.

It’s her life. They should try living the life she has, slowly being eaten away by corruption and greed and addiction. Sex is good, but it’s even better when they pay up front. Money makes the world go round, after all; she’s more than happy to sell every piece of herself that she can. Alcohol is bitter on her tongue, but the boys who pour it are sweet enough to take it away, and ecstasy just makes it better.

Honestly, when Ishimaru storms in after his fifth **unsuccessful** attempt, she can’t stop from informing him he looks like shit. He usually goes quiet and sticks to Mondo’s side like some pathetic limpet, but not this time. He’s angry and she feels an odd sense of satisfaction as he spits his comeback, as if it were acid.

**_“At least I don’t look like a used-up whore!”_ **

Her smirk only grows sharper when she hears the slam of the door, Mondo calling after him in that **adorable** worried voice he has. Is he Ishimaru’s boyfriend, or his mother?

She’s not angry at the insult, at all. She **does**. Hell, she **is** , in a way. Drugs, gambling, sex; that’s a lot to contain in seventeen years, right? She doesn’t know if that makes it sad, or if she should get some sort of fucking trophy. A hot meal would be better, but still.

Or having a home to get back to after this Hell. Detox is a bitch, but she’ll just keep going through the cycle without a place to go. Home? What the fuck’s that? She can’t be bothered with that domestic crap, anyway. Even if she was welcome back there.

Still, she’s happy to live the way she has, as she’s probably got a little of that suicidal streak Ishimaru has. If she died tomorrow, injecting coke or heroin into her veins, she wouldn’t care.

It’d be a good way to go, actually.


	6. Ugly, Scarred Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's either the ruler of the underworld, or an ugly, self-harming, emo, piece of shit. It just depends if his meds are working.

He’s got problems, and he knows it.

Tanaka’s not the sort of person to be in denial – or, at least, he thinks he isn’t. Deluded, yes, but not in denial. He can see it, in the marks that lay beneath the bandages on his arm and that were once hidden by his scarf. He’s not allowed his scarf anymore; they think he could use it to hang himself, apparently, the same for his shoelaces.

Ishimaru said that hanging oneself with shoelaces is near-impossible, however, and he’s a very reliable source when it comes to these things.

Still, it was hell here. He’d rather be cast into the fiery inferno, tortured for millennia in the pits from whence he came, than spend another moment in hospital. He finds a companion in Ishimaru – Taka – due to this, and the fact that they’re easier to watch when in each other’s company. They want to claw marks across their skin, watch themselves bleed, subside their emotional trauma and baggage with cathartic pain and blood loss. Still, they are prevented from doing so.

They clearly do not know of his responsibilities as the Dark Lord! Bloodletting is a ritual, a sacrifice! It is his right to summon and perform the spells and curses he wishes, is it not? He is not bound by the law, he does not harm the innocent! What business of theirs is it that he mutilates himself, the disgusting reject that is of both angel and demon born! They should throw themselves at his feet and give him their eternal thanks!

… He knows that’s not true. Sometimes the medication works, sometimes it doesn’t - or, not as well. However… He likes being the “Dark Lord” Gundam Tanaka. There’s a confidence to it, a purpose, rather than the empty shell he is when lucid. Some say Naegi’s plain, but he isn’t; Tanaka barely knows who he is without the delusions.

Who could fall in love with that? No one. They’ll either be attracted to the Dark Lord’s quirks, or want him for the shallow reasons people normally do, not that he can see that happening. He’s ugly, really. He tried to fit the standard, into that little cookie cutter shape society expects, but he couldn’t.

He tried to get thinner, even if he wasn’t facially attractive. He cut down on his meals, he really did, but his mother would cry and cry if he didn’t eat, once she caught on to him. No more skipping breakfast, lunch and dinner. He could get away with “running late” for school, no time for breakfast, and throwing away that lunch his mother gave him. It was dinners he’d dread.

He would sit down, wooden chairs hard and uncomfortable, his mother sitting so close the her own chair brushed his. Then would come the waiting, the moving food around his plate, the staring. The staring was awful, bile creeping up his throat and heartbeat thrumming against his ribs. Honestly, whoever gave her that advice was the devil incarnate, more so than even the Dark Lord. He wanted to be swallowed by the floor, hands shaking as the fork moved one tiny bite-sized piece to the opposite end of the plate. Not to be eaten, not by his own will; not yet, and not without his mother’s tears.

After half an hour or so came the tears, the guilting, the begging. _Please, Tanaka, you have to eat!_

Did he? Did he really?

Society praises the thin. The thin fit in, are social, have **friends** ; didn’t she used to cry over him being an outcast? He never cared, but he did for **her**. No, he had to be the perfect little gingerbread boy; sweet, cookie cutter perfect, aesthetically pleasing.

Skip to the present, and he’s anything but. That tattoo, the contacts, the earring; all that goth and emo shit makes him plain as day. No one could miss a demon walking amongst the mortals, after all! He likes it, though. No one else does, it seems, Mondo telling him he’s a dumbass for getting a tattoo on his face, but it’s said in that playful way. It doesn’t… **feel** like an insult, just a mere jest. A _friendly_ thing to do. That’s just too out of the norm to contemplate, really.

He’s malformed, though. Made of too much flabby dough and scarred up. Togami, when he’s not putting up the tsundere, asshole image, says he could get a tattoo to cover them up. He doesn’t know how to feel about that - shouldn’t a monster be branded as such? - until Taka suggests going together.

“If I’m still alive, that is,” He amends quickly, but Mondo’s smile is blinding. They think it’s progress, not instantly denying any chance of a future. If anything, that gives him even more motivation to agree, and they discuss styles and patterns into the night.

Naegi… He likes the boy, but it’s painful to look at. He knows that, looking at him, he’s looking into the sheen of delusion and disconnect from reality that passes over him when he becomes the Dark Lord. He knows he used to be that bad, and that Naegi hasn’t been responding well to the various medications and therapies they’ve tried. They’re not giving up, of course not, but it’s… more severe than his case was.

Celestia… Well, she’s a bitch. That falsity and plastered on airs can only go so far, after all, and it doesn’t take much to push her over the edge. After all, she’s made the poor work experience boy cry three times this week.

Still, there are people other than Ishimaru and Mondo he enjoys spending time with. The staff are kind and supportive, and… Well…

“Psst, Tanaka…” Whispers the devil he thought of, the edges of his sharp teeth glinting through softly parted lips, due to the faintest ray of moonlight. He looks every inch the predator he’s not, “C-can I sleep here tonight? I’m not doing great and… it doesn’t help I’m in the room next to Mondo’s…”

“Of course,” He nods, “I’m… I can’t sleep anyway…”

“Still thinking about Taka?” Souda asks, the mattress beneath him dipping with the other’s weight, “I know, it was really weird that he said that shit. And… I guess we all had more hope for him this time, right? Then he tries to die, again. We’re all kinda scared for him, but you shouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

He hummed. True, he shouldn’t, they’ve been through this before… but he can’t stop being too alert, wondering when, one day, they’ll get an invite to his funeral, rather than the sight of bandages and dull red eyes.

Some sick part of him wonders if that would actually be for the better.

“Not the only reason,” He sighs, “My stomach hurts. Asahina-san made me eat too much…”

He lays there, Souda slipping next to him, slowly rubbing his **too big** , **too fat** gut to ease the cramps, and thinks…

**_Will any of us really get better?_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if Soudam is a deal-breaker for anyone, but I love it. I like Sondam, but... idk, everyone has their preferences I guess.
> 
> And Sonia's a nurse, so... A patient-nurse relationship isn't ethical. Sorry.


	7. Tying Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Souda's... going to be okay.

Living in a place like “Hope’s Peak”, even if it **is** temporary, gets you used to crazy shit. It gets you used to crazy, disillusioned, insane… sometimes violent people. So, just like the ones on the outside, but actually slapped with a diagnosis – a label – stating it as fact.

Take Gundam, for instance. There’s no denying that he’s got issues, but his hysterical mother probably made it worse. Not that he’s perfect, or would know what to do himself. Still, there had to be a better way than confining him like that, sobbing and guilting him when she knew he worshiped the ground she walked on.

Or maybe Souda’s biased against mums as a general rule. After all, it’s not like his own gave a shit; if she had, he wouldn’t have let his dad beat the crap out of him.

No one gives a fuck, not really. If they did, he wouldn’t be here. He would’ve been helped before he was convinced the only way to stop the scars, bruises and pain was to swallow all those painkillers. To die. He liked living, but… couldn’t deal with anything.

It hurt like hell, too.

If it wasn’t for Gundam, he didn’t want to think of what might’ve happened; he wouldn’t be in a nice facility, that’s for sure. It was pure luck, definitely. When he was laying there, numb yet dreading going home, in that hospital bed, Gundam happened to be there too.

He was there due to blood loss, and to get stitches in his arm. It was a hell of a shock; talking to that shy, sweet boy one day, and the “Dark Lord” the next. But still… they bonded, and he was offered the chance of a life time.

He was just tying up loose ends now, stabilising and preparing to go back to society, living with his sister while he found a job. The fun one too, which was awesome.

“Souda… Will you still visit me?” Gundam asks, everything about him screaming vulnerability, wrapped in a blanket and Souda’s hand stilling over his stomach, many layers preventing any skin-on-skin contact. Somehow, the question feels like liquid nitrogen in his chest; so cold, it burns.

“Yeah… ‘course…” He answers, his hesitation probably not all that convincing, “You know I love you… That doesn’t stop when I leave, when you leave… We’re fighters, and I’m here for you no matter what.”

Gundam’s silent for a while, so he breaks it once again. That’s what Souda can do; hold him through nausea, cramps, urges to stick his fingers down his throat. Break those awkward silences that fucked up brain chemistry and insecurities forces between them. It’s the least he can do.

“I love you,” He repeats, more firmly than before, pressing kisses to the thin sheets separating him from Gundam’s porcelain flesh, “I won’t leave you, okay? You’re stuck with me.”

A small, whispered thank you, and dry lips are pressed to his and he thanks whatever Gods Gundam does or doesn’t believe in for his obvious “good day”; despite Ishimaru’s return.

That worries him, if he’s honest. Ishimaru has never been the best patient, and he’s scared of what that might mean for Gundam; they **are** best friends, after all. Gundam’s finally getting better – **really** better – and he doesn’t want anything to jeopardise that. Ishimaru cares, he won’t deny that, but… the way in which he does… Well, both Komaeda and Togami can attest to that. Everyone knows he’s a dark person now, but some are just in wilful denial; Naegi, not that he can help it, and Mondo. Mondo doesn’t have an “excuse”, as such, other than being completely love sick.

Well, he can hardly judge.

“I know,” Gundam sighs, because he does, “I just worry. It’s different out there.”

“’I guess,” He agrees, because it is, and he knows that, “But it won’t change **me**.”


	8. B A L A N C I N G   A C T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He did it for them, for balance, for HOPE.

Luck was a funny thing; giving to some, taking from others… If someone could subvert it, alter it… Well, wouldn’t that be a talent? But he’s useless trash who can’t do anything right. He can only keep his head down, and use his methods to try and claw back some luck for himself.

Clicking lights to keep his fortune, tapping to keep everyone in the ward safe, touching to keep Hajime safe. Here. With him. Face, neck, chest; methodical madness screaming in his head. Do it, or have everything taken away.

Click. Click. Click, click. Click, click, click. Clickclickclick.

“Komaeda, stop fuckin’ clicking.”

Clicks are soothing. It makes the mess inside his head… Well, not disappear, but it was soothing. When anxiety makes up a good amount of your thoughts, you want comfort – even if you’re not a person who deserves it. Well, he doesn’t deserve anything he has left; especially not Hajime.

Hajime is so, so good. Perfect. Even if he shouldn’t, even if he’s not worthy, he can’t help himself. He didn’t blame Ishimaru for punching him in the face, shoving him to the ground and saying those things. He knew that his hands, chapped from washing and wrapped around the other’s wrists, leaving streaks of his own crimson blood, should not have touched that soft skin.

Hajime tried to say that Ishimaru was wrong. Angry. That he wasn’t filth, or trash; that he didn’t deserve to die.

His Hajime was so sweet, trying to console refuse like him; chaotic scum who was, indeed, better off dead.

Click. Click.

“Komaeda, for fuck’s –”

“Easy,” He cautions, sing-song and disgustingly near-cheerful, “If my girlfriend was finally allowed to visit, I wouldn’t be so testy. Remember? Trying to stop being so angry?”

Fuyuhiko glares daggers at him, a look he **deserved** , before sighing and redirecting his gaze out the window. “And they put me in a ward with annoying bastards like you,” He remarks dryly, “Really fuckin’ helps.”

He frowns at that. He should be angry, call him shit, threaten him, but he’s not DOING THAT. It’s a break in routine, but it’s been a gradual change; the fight slowly flowing out of him, to be replaced with pills. He didn’t know if that makes him hopeful or not, wishing and wishing for growth, improvement, help that WORKS.

At the same time, he’s the one keeping the balance in check; keeping LUCK at bay. He can’t give that up, or it will all be lost.

S A V E   M E .

He hates the pills, hates hands being held still so the lights don’t flicker. So he can’t tap, tap, tap; knock, knock, knock; click, click, click.

“I miss her,” Fuyuhiko whispers, quiet syllables floating along the breeze from a boy who is, beneath the fiery anger and yakuza pin, young and broken.

It must be nice to have someone to miss. It’s all they talk about, while he’s left out in the frigid, barren wasteland that is his life; accept for one of the other kids there, but he has Mitari. The sad overweight boy, left all alone, was taken in by one so thin and fragile, he was little more than a breeze. A wafer. Snappable, breakable Mitari with the same sad eyes. It’s almost lorded in his face, but it’s   h o p e ,   right? That he can have that same attachment to a human being.

No, he can’t. He is UNLOVABLE, but that’s not IT. People get attached to garbage all the time, after all. No, he has a balance to keep, for all their sakes. Because it’s a pure, platonic, **one-sided** love for them all. It’s clicking, snapping, scrubbing, touching –

All for   b a l a n c e .   All for LUCK.

All for   H O P E .


End file.
